


The Most Important Meal of the Day

by CaseyM



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Het and Slash, M/M, Male Slash, Slash, baked goods count as foreplay, brief het flashback, with Stanton and sex toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:59:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaseyM/pseuds/CaseyM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John rolled to his knees. And suddenly there was finely tailored wool right in front of him, navy with a slender gray stripe over a small but perfect ass, and Harold said, “Stay down. I’ve got this.”</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John and Harold's relationship is complicated. Something as simple as coffee cake shouldn't lead to a breakthrough. But sometimes a little home cooking is all it takes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Important Meal of the Day

John Reese was getting his ass kicked.

It wasn’t that the guy was that big, though he was bigger than Reese by a couple inches and thirty pounds. It wasn’t that he was more skilled than Reese. The problem was that he’d come in after his five friends had already had a go at John and worn him down pretty well.

Those five, Reese noted with grim satisfaction as he clambered to his feet the third time, were all still on the ground.

Finch had been worried in his ear a while ago, but there had been a crunch when one of them slammed him into the bar, probably destroying his phone, and the earwig had been silent since.

He missed Finch in his ear.

John had started out tired, and this guy  -- he’d decided to call him Six, just for simplicity’s sake -- had come in fresh, and the first thing he’d done was break a pool cue over Reese’s head.

John’s scalp was bleeding; the blood kept running into his eyes. He felt a little light-headed. His arms were tired. His legs felt like lead. He’d gotten in some good hits, but the guy kept coming.

His gun had gone sliding under the bar while he was dealing with the first five.

Six swung at him with a big wide right.  Reese ducked, twisted, and got caught squarely by the follow-up left. He staggered back, tried to catch himself on a table, and ended up toppling over with it.

The floor was cool. It seemed like a lot of trouble to get up. His head hurt. There was blood in his eyes. He hurt everywhere. He was sucking for air. He just needed a minute or ten to rest. _Not losing_ , he thought, _just resting._

But Six wouldn’t wait. He grabbed the table and threw it aside, and then came back for him. John rolled to his knees.

And suddenly there was finely tailored wool right in front of him, navy with a slender gray stripe over a small but perfect ass, and Harold said, “Stay down. I’ve got this.”

“What?” Reese managed to say. There was a lot more he should say, _what are you doing here_ and _be careful, he can hurt you_ and _don’t be an idiot, Harold, I’m the one who gets beat up in this arrangement_ and maybe if he were very daring _I love you, please don’t get yourself killed for me_. But it all came out as that one bewildered word, “What?”

Finch didn’t answer. Reese heard Six chuckle, saw his feet coming toward Finch’s, and then there was a cracking sound like lightning and a smell of ozone and Six staggered back.

_That won’t work, he’ll keep coming …_

A solid thunk. Glass shattered. Six dropped.

Reese stayed on his knees, swaying.

Finch said, “I’d ask if you’re okay, Mr. Reese, but that seems unnecessary.” He reached down, inside Reese’s jacket. “Give me just a moment and I’ll get you out of here.”

He moved away. Reese settled back on his heels, disappointed. He’d liked Finch’s hand inside his jacket.

Harold leaned over Six and deftly zip-tied his hands behind his back. Then he returned, took John’s bicep with both hands, and said, “Can you stand?”

“Sure,” Reese answered, as if he were certain. He wasn’t. He rolled back, hoping to get to his feet gracefully. It didn’t work. He ended up leaning his weight against Harold’s grip, pulling him. He heard Finch take a short little breath of pain himself. But he didn’t complain. He helped, until John was on his feet. Then he helped him to the waiting town car.

He kept on hand on Reese’s arm, reached for the back door with the other. “No.”

Harold turned and peered at him. The streetlight reflected off his glasses and John couldn’t see his eyes. But his voice was calm, warm with concern. “John?”

“Front seat,” he said.

Finch huffed. “Next you’ll be saying you want to drive, too.”

“I could drive,” Reese protested. He swayed gently in Finch’s grasp. The blood had stopped flowing from his scalp wound, but he could feel it dripping from his hairline still.

“I think not.” But Finch opened the passenger side front door and helped him into the seat. The he leaned forward, reached down between his legs, and fumbled at something on the floor.

And this could have been good thing, but John wasn’t quite dazed enough to believe it. “Harold?” he asked softly.

“One moment,” Finch said impatiently. There was a metallic click, and then the seat slid back. Finch straightened and did something at the side of the seat, and the back reclined. Then he pulled the seat and shoulder belt across John’s lap and buckled them. “There. Comfortable?”

He’d been more comfortable, Reese thought, with Harold’s head nearly in his lap. But that was not in the cards, probably ever. He nodded. “Yeah.”       

“Good.”  Finch straightened slowly, clearly in pain.

“Call … Carter.”

“Already done.” Finch closed the door and walked around the front of the car.

Before he got in the driver’s seat, Reese was asleep.

 ***

“Mr. Reese.”

Reese shrugged, reluctant to open his eyes, to be awake at all.

“Mr. Reese!”

He squinted through the narrowest possible opening of his eyelids. “What?”

“What month is it?”

“Huh?”

“What month of the year is it?”

“August.”

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“Bear.”

“What was the name of our last Number?”

“Trout.”

“Very good. Go back to sleep.”

_What the hell was that about?_ Reese wondered. Then sleep claimed him again.

 ***

“Mr. Reese?”

It was a little easier to open his eyes this time. Reese looked around without moving his head. He was still in the car, still reclined. The car was not moving. Finch was still beside him, awkwardly half-turned, regarding him with unconcealed concern. “Finch.”

“Do you know what day is it?”

Reese blinked. “Is it after midnight?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s Monday. Why?”

“What’s your birthday?”

“April 24,” he answered. Suddenly the questions made sense. “I don’t think I have a concussion, Finch.”

“You certainly deserve to have one. Who’s the president?”

“You are, Harold.”

Finch quirked his lip at him. “Mr. Reese. Please.”

“That nice young black man with the pretty wife.”

Harold’s mouth moved into what might have been a tiny smile. “Go back to sleep.”

 ***

The third time, Reese woke up on his own. His neck hurt from the angle his head had fallen into against the car seat. He looked out the front window. It was nighttime still, but there were lights. “Where are we, Finch?”

“Garment District.”

“What time is it?”

“Just past three.”

John frowned. The fight had started before midnight. He reached to the side of the seat and pulled the little lever that brought the seat upright. “Who’s following us?”

Finch glanced at him. “No one. Why?”

“Then why are we still driving around?”

“You were sleeping,” he answered simply.

Reese frowned at the city beyond the car window. “You drove around for three hours so I could sleep?”

“You seemed to need it.” Finch reached down and came up with an unopened water bottle. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Reese cracked the bottle open and drank deeply. It was tepid, but it soothed the dryness in his throat. He reached up and touched his forehead. It was covered with something crusty that flaked away; dried blood from his scalp wound. He explored further, up to the wound. It was tender, but shallow and dry. “I think I’d like to get cleaned up now.”

“Very well,” Finch answered, and turned the next corner.

 ***

John was dozing again when the car stopped. He blinked and looked around. They were down the block from his loft. “Thanks, Finch,” he sighed. He gathered his strength and climbed out of the car. On the sidewalk he paused and took a quick physical inventory. He was stiff and sore, but nothing felt broken. His balance was good, his head clear. He was tired, nothing more.

He was a little surprised when Finch got out, too. “I can manage,” he said.

“Nonetheless, I’d like to stay,” Harold answered. “If you don’t mind.”

_Yes_ , Reese thought, elated. Then the elation fell; of course Finch was only interested in his physical well-being. There was no romantic intention in his self-invitation.

Still. Finch was staying, and that was something. Something good. “I don’t have a concussion,” he protested mildly.

“Very well,” Finch agreed, and followed him to the loft anyhow.

Reese paused inside the doorway. He had the sense he should do some kind of host thing, but he was at a loss. “You can …” he began.

“Yes,” Finch said briskly. “I know my way around. Go and shower, then I’ll have a look at that head wound.”

John touched the top of his head again. “I don’t think it’s …”

“Yes, yes.” Finch took off his jacket, held his hand out for Reese’s. He t’sked at the blood on the garment, then carried it to the kitchen sink.

John watched him for a moment. It was strangely comforting to watch his partner fuss over his coat, applying cold water and a dish cloth with quick, deft strokes. And strangely erotic to watch Finch’s competent hands work …

He went and took a shower.

 ***

“I’ll take the couch,” Reese offered.

He was sitting down, as ordered. Finch stood over him, pressing a damp towel against the wound on his scalp. The shower had washed away the clotted blood and it had begun to ooze again, but a few minutes of direct pressure seemed to have stopped the bleeding. Reese could have held the towel himself, but he didn’t say so. Finch was standing right beside him, close. He was near enough that John could breathe his scent. If he wanted to stay there a little long, John wasn’t going to argue.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Finch told him in a tone that brooked no argument. “I don’t intend to sleep anyhow.”

“You need to sleep, Harold.”

“Hmm.” Finch lifted the towel, then pressed it down again. “I’ll wake you every two hours.”

“I don’t think I have a concussion, Finch.”

“I don’t, either. But it doesn’t hurt to be cautious. A lesson you could stand to review, Mr. Reese.”

John twisted his head to look up at him. “I was doing okay.”

“You were, to use the common vernacular, getting your ass kicked.”

He shrugged, chagrined. “Yeah, I was. Thanks for the assist.”

Finch grunted.

“You shouldn’t have taken the chance,” John told him.

Harold looked down at him, his expression unreadable. Then he removed the towel and stepped back. “Get some sleep, John. I’ll be here if you need me.”

“You always are.” John wanted to say more. Wanted to throw his arms around Finch’s waist, bury his face against his vest, feel his warmth through the fine wool. Keep him close. He clenched his fingers on his own knees until the impulse passed.

Because maybe Harold would wrap his arms around his head and hold him. And maybe he would simply pat him awkwardly and dismiss it as a symptom of his concussion.

And maybe he would walk away, take his coat, and vanish into the night.

Reese had a horrible vision of himself walking into the library, finding the computers cold, the chair empty, and Finch simply gone.

He shuddered. Harold’s hand was immediately on his shoulder, warm, safe. “Get some sleep, John,” Finch urged again.

Carefully, numb, Reese stood and walked to his bed. He looked back. His partner was already sitting at the little table, opening his laptop. He nodded to himself. He would sleep. Harold would work, and keep watch. In the morning …

In the morning they would go back to work. That was how it should be.

That was how it had to be.

 ***

Finch woke him twice, both times with his voice and not his touch. He asked three simple questions each time. Reese answered. Harold patted his shoulder – safe, when John was fully awake – and told him to go back to sleep.

John did.

The third time, again, he woke on his own. The room was flooded with light from the wall of windows. He was aware that there had been noise, quiet, irregular, unthreatening.

The room smelled like cinnamon and deliciousness.

He raised his head off the pillow. His neck hurt a little, and his head hurt more, but he was in one piece.

Finch was bringing the square baking pan out of the oven.

“Finch?”

 The genius turned toward him. “Ah, good. Breakfast will be ready shortly.”

“Breakfast.”

“Most important meal of the day.” He waved in the general direction of the bathroom, then turned back to the stove. “Go brush your teeth and such.”

John staggered out of bed and down the hall. When he returned to the breakfast bar, Finch slid a cup of coffee toward him. There was already a tall class of orange juice. And there was a square of coffee cake.

“Coffee cake.”

“It’s hot,” Finch warned. “Eggs in one minute.”

John stared at the cake. It was yellow underneath, cinnamon on top, with a pat of butter. Steaming. Home-made.

Something unnamed twisted around in the center of his chest. Homemade coffee cake. It was a simple thing, and yet unexplained tears prickled at his eyes. He blinked quickly. Then he reached for the fork.

“Hot,” Finch reminded him.

He obediently blew on the bite before placing it in his mouth.

It was warm and moist, buttery and sweet with just the right bite from the cinnamon. “This is delicious, Finch.”

Harold raised one eyebrow as he slid a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Reese. “It’s from the recipe on the side of the Bisquik box,” he said dismissively.

John knew, then, why it was so wonderfully familiar. Years ago his mother used to bake it on Sunday mornings. It had the taste and the scent of home.

“It’s still delicious. And knowing you, there’s some secret ingredient.”

“I added the last bit of sour cream you had in your refrigerator,” Finch said. “But there wasn’t enough to make much difference.”

“Mmm.” Reese took another bite and swallowed. “Must be that it’s baked with love, then.”

He tried to keep his voice light and teasing.

Apparently it worked, because Finch gave him the small indulgent smile he always did when he knew Reese was flirting. “That must be it,” he agreed.

Reese ate the eggs, drank his juice, and had three more pieces of the coffee cake.

“I’ll have to remember,” Finch said, finishing his own second piece, “to make it again the next time we have a sleep-over.”

“Absolutely,” Reese grinned.

And though sleep-overs usually meant that something had gone terribly wrong, or that he was more than a little injured, he found himself looking forward to it.

 ***

The next time came sooner than John could have hoped, and with much less necessary drama. Their Number, Alex Nixon, had been targeted for murder by his step-brother. They rather quickly assembled the necessary information to have both the step-brother and the hit man he’d hired arrested. But while the police sought the two out, John took Alex to a safe house. The young man was uninjured but badly frightened; he took two of his prescribed anti-anxiety pills and collapsed into bed. Reese dozed on the couch, waking every hour to check the perimeter.

At six in the morning, Finch arrived, with groceries. “They’ve been arrested,” he reported. “When Mr. Nixon wakes up you can take him home.” Then he made breakfast.

This time Finch added fresh blueberries to the coffee cake. They popped when John chewed them, little bursts of warm juice exploding on his tongue. He rolled his eyes in bliss. “Perfect, Finch. This is delicious.”

Finch regarded him fondly. “I’m glad you like it, Mr. Reese. I thought the berries would be a good addition.”

“Definitely.” He heard Nixon stirring in the bedroom; he took another quick bite and stood up. As he moved past Finch, he added, “But it’s still the love that makes it wonderful.” He barely paused, just long enough to bend and brush a kiss across Harold’s lips. Then he kept moving, out to greet the waking Number.

Finch did not comment. If he reacted at all, Reese didn’t see it. He was afraid to look back. His heart felt big and sluggish in his chest. Just that instant of contact had made him loopy. He was afraid, and he was thrilled at his own daring.

They fed Nixon breakfast. John tried not to resent that the Number got to enjoy the fresh-baked coffee cake too. He tried not to make eye contact with Finch. His partner didn’t seem to notice. He certainly didn’t seem upset that John had stolen a tiny kiss. John was sure that Finch thought it was just a big goof, another of John’s relentless flirting gestures. That was best, that he thought that. He had probably rolled his eyes and gotten that exasperated look again, nothing more.

After breakfast, Reese drove the Number home.

He tried hard not to think about that tiny, ill-advised kiss.

He failed completely.

 ***

Reese got up early the next morning. When he reached the library, he had his coffee and Finch’s tea, as always. He also had a loaf of fresh-baked banana bread.

“What’s this?” Finch asked, accepting a slice with appreciation.

“I had some bananas going bad,” Reese explained with a shrug.

“It’s delicious. Thank you.”

John looked at his shoes and smiled. “Glad you like it.”

Finch wiped his fingers and stood up, moving toward the board where the picture of their next client hung. “Made with love as the secret ingredient, I presume?” His tone was light, teasing, the tone he used when he was flirting back.

“Of course,” John grinned. He loved it when Finch flirted back, even if it _was_ just flirting and nothing more. He liked it when he partner played with him.

And then the impossible happened. Finch turned, put his hand behind John’s neck, pulled his head down and kissed him. “Thank you, John.”

Just that quickly he released him and walked to the board. “This is Exeter Knight,” he explained. “That is not, of course, his original name. He changed it legally in 2009 …”

Reese stared at him.

It had been nothing. A glancing little touch, the lightest of all possible kisses. Brief and fleeting. Playful. Finch repaying him for the kiss the other day, showing him that two could play that game. Just flirting. It didn’t mean anything.

John’s lips felt like they were glowing with the residual bliss of that tiny kiss.

And there was Harold, going on as if nothing had happened. Because it was nothing to him. Just teasing his partner, his friend. His employee.

_Do not be an idiot,_ Reese told himself firmly. _He’s just flirting back. He doesn’t mean it. It’s nothing._

He had to shove his hand in his pocket to keep from touching his lips in wonder. To pinch his own thigh hard through the pocket fabric to focus his attention on the new Number.

Nothing could stop the feeling that the glow from that kiss was spreading over his whole body.

 ***

The next day, Finch brought cranberry muffins. Reese said the magic words, ‘made with love’, and kissed his lightly. Finch smiled indulgently, and they went to work.

 ***

The day after that, Reese brought in apple crisp. Finch said the magic words and returned the kiss.

 ***

Baked French toast casserole.

 ***

Fresh fruit compote over shortcakes.

 ***

Crepes, with fresh strawberries and whipped cream.

 ***

Reese had to get up early to bake every other day. He didn’t mind. He looked forward to it, scouring recipes, shopping for ingredients, planning. Anticipating. It wasn’t a competition, exactly. More of a gift exchange. His reward was Finch’s approval, his smile, and a tiny, chaste kiss.

John thought about it, early in the morning as he waited for the timer to go off. It had gone beyond flirting, beyond a game. It was something more now, and he wasn’t sure exactly what. On one level he wanted more. He wanted to wrap his arms around his partner and really kiss him, to taste him, explore his mouth, feel those clever nimble fingers on his body. He wanted to peel off Finch’s carefully tailored clothes and discover the secrets they concealed. He wanted to hear him sigh, and to hear him scream John’s name. He wanted … everything.

And yet he was oddly content with things as they were. Finch was comfortable with the little kisses. Anticipated them and did not recoil. That was something. That was a lot. And if it never progressed, if all that happened every day for the rest of his life was that he got to brush his lips against Harold’s … he could be happy with this, as long as Harold didn’t pull away.

He would love more, but he wasn’t willing to risk driving his partner away. If this was all there was, it was still more than he’d ever expected. It was enough.

The timer sounded. John turned it off and brought out the tray of perfectly-browned apple popovers. They smelled wonderful, and he knew Harold would love them. He set them on the counter to cool while he dressed.

 ***

He was late getting to the library the next day.  Finch was nowhere in sight, but the computers were on and there was a plastic container open on the desk. Reese walked over happily and picked up a scone. It was still warm and smelled delicious. He took a bite just as Finch came out from the stacks and shouted, “No, don’t!”

John froze, with the bite in his mouth, not chewing. The pastry was gritty and far too salty and … awful.

“Here,” Finch said impatiently, holding a napkin to his mouth, “spit that out.”

Reese couldn’t bring himself to spit in his partner’s hand. He took the napkin instead and held it himself while he spat out the single bite of scone.

“I am so sorry,” Finch said. He quickly put the lid back on the plastic container and dropped the whole thing into the trash can. “Something is terribly wrong with the recipe. I apologize.”

He seemed agitated and genuinely distressed. “It’s okay, Finch,” Reese said sincerely. “This much experimenting, things are bound to go wrong sooner or later.”

The genius was not mollified. He pulled one book off the stack at the corner of the desk and threw it open. For the first time Reese noticed that they were all vintage cook books. “It’s unacceptable,” he said tersely. “I _thought_ there was much too much baking soda, but then I thought perhaps it aided the texture. I should have known better.” He slammed the book shut, clearly agitated, and grabbed another one.

“Finch, it’s okay,” Reese said. He touched his arm gently. “Honestly, I could use to lay off the pastry anyhow.” He patted his belly with his other hand. “I’ve gained about five pounds since we started this.”

Finch glanced at him, irritated, then looked back and continued to flip through the cookbook furiously. “Unacceptable,” he said again.

“Finch.” John took his shoulder and turned him gently toward him. “I know you still made them with love, and that’s all that matters.” He leaned and kissed him, not the usual passing touch but long, lingering. Gently, he parted his lips, used his tongue to urge Harold’s open.

Finch went rigid and stepped back. “Ewww, disgusting!” he exclaimed.

John dropped his hands to his sides. He took a step back, too. It stung. More than stung. He’d known he was pushing his luck. He’d hoped … but this level of rejection … Harold might as well have slapped him … he had it coming, he’d pushed too hard, he’d misread …

He tried to compose his features, to hide the hurt behind some façade, any façade. He didn’t think he managed, but it didn’t matter, because Harold had turned his back and was rummaging in the desk drawer. He turned back with a small red and white tin in his hand. Popped it open, and came toward Reese with something white between his thumb and index finger. “Open,” he ordered.

Stunned, John opened his mouth as much in astonishment as obedience. For a fleeting instant Harold’s fingers were _in his mouth_. That was something amazing and wonderful it itself. Before he could respond, the fingers were gone and there was a circle of sweet strong mint on his tongue.

Finch looked down, got a mint for himself from the tin, and put it in his mouth. He put the tin on the corner of his desk. “I do apologize, Mr. Reese,” he said morosely. “Please help yourself to more, if the taste lingers.”

Reese stood absolutely still. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He’d been so certain that Finch was rejecting his kiss, and now … now he wasn’t certain of anything. _Ewww, disgusting_ has seemed so unequivocal. But had that been a commentary on the lingering taste of the mis-made scone, and not of his tongue teasing between Finch’s lips?

He felt lost, utterly bewildered.

And Finch didn’t help. Finch didn’t even notice. He continued to page angrily though the cookbooks, locating a certain page in one, then another, than a third. “I thought so,” he finally declared. “It should have been teaspoons, not tablespoons. An unforgivable editing failure.”

He picked up the first cookbook and dropped it emphatically into the trash can on top of the plastic container of inedible scones.

Then, finally, he looked up at Reese. “Mr. Reese? Another mint?”

“I …” John couldn’t speak. He was still lost, and he knew it showed on his face, and he was powerless to hide it. Was he allowed to kiss Harold? Or was that disgusting? And if it was … could he ever come back here again?

He should just leave, he thought wildly. Just leave. Go somewhere where he could think without those blue eyes watching him. Go anywhere but here. Go think …

“John?” Finch asked. He studied him, puzzled. And then, somehow, he got it. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, I am sorry, John.” He stepped closer.

John held his breath. He wanted to speak, but there was a big lump in his throat and he couldn’t think of any words anyhow. He knew that his confusion and his pain were written on his face and he still couldn’t hide them. He could only stare as Harold stopped right in front of him.

He actually jumped when Harold put one hand flat on his chest.

“John,” Finch said again, with so much tenderness that John shuddered. Then he put his other hand on the back of John’s neck and pulled his face down gently. Their lips pressed together as they’d done before, but this time it was Harold who let the  kiss linger, and Harold whose lips parted first.

Reese shuddered again. He felt tears prickling at his eyes. His hands came up and hovered in mid-air around Finch’s form. He wanted to hold him, but the kiss felt so impossibly delicate that he was afraid to disturb it.

Harold’s tongue brushed across his, cool and minty. Reese wished he could just taste Harold instead. And then, too quickly, his partner drew away.

“You,” Finch said softly, firmly as he stepped back, “are not, and will never be, _disgusting_. But I would prefer not to kiss you with the taste of my failure on your tongue.”

“Ohhh,” Reese breathed.

And then Finch moved away, back to his computer, back to work, as if nothing extraordinary had happened, as if he not given John the most wonderful gift he could have wished for.

John managed to say, “Thank you, Harold.”

Finch glanced at him, his eyes bright and warm and a bit amused behind his glasses. “We have a Number to help, John,” he said gently.

 ***

The glow stayed with him most of the day.

It had been nothing, really, he tried to tell himself. Just a little deeper kiss than they’d been sharing, A little longer, a little more deliberate. But still, just a kiss. Nothing to indicate that Finch was feeling the way he was feeling, wanting the things he wanted. Nothing but a kiss. And yet it warmed him, filled him, comforted him.

Every time he heard Finch’s voice in his ear, he remembered the taste of mint on his tongue.

It was stupid and sentimental, and John held onto it as hard as he could.

It had been a very long time.

By mid-afternoon, they knew that their Number was a perpetrator. He planned to kill his ex and her fiancé. At sundown, Reese caught him, dropped him, and took away the drop gun he’d watched the man buy. He was reaching into his jacket for a zip tie, planning to leave the man bundled for Fusco to pick up – Carter had gotten the last one – when the man grabbed a second gun off his ankle and shot at him. Reese drew his gun and shot back, as much reflex as anything.

The bullet in his leg didn’t stop the man from raising his gun again. The one in his chest definitely did.

Reese stood very still, panting.

In his ear, Finch said, “Mr. Reese! Mr. Reese!”

“I’m okay,” Reese finally said. “But he’s dead.”

A moment passed. Reese thought he could hear the disappointment in Finch’s silence. But when he spoke, his voice was even. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Not a scratch,” he said flatly. He straightened his jacket. “I’m going home, Finch.”

Another brief silence. “We could get some dinner …”

“No,” Reese answered.

“I could bring carry-out …”

John closed his eyes. Finch, in his loft again. Neither of them wounded. No Number pending. Finch would take his jacket off.  Would unpack John’s favorite meal onto real plates on the breakfast bar. Would be calm and reasonable and not blame him for the fact that this man was dead.

Hell, if he played his card right he might even score a pity fuck out of the evening.

“No,” he said again. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“John …”

Reese slapped at his ear and shut off the link.

 ***

He had poured himself a drink. He deserved a drink. But he sat in the dark with the glass in his hand and he did not drink it.

The man – Meyers, he made himself remember, the man’s name was Meyers – was dead. There was a time when a death like this would not have bothered Reese at all. Some of the collateral damage deaths got to him, but ones like this, straight up self-defense? He wouldn’t have broken stride, emotionally speaking.

He knew exactly what Kara Stanton would have to say about his brooding in the dark over the death of a man who’d tried to kill him.

But Kara Stanton was dead, and Harold Finch had let him to a higher ethnical ground.

He knew Harold wouldn’t blame him. But Harold _should_ blame him. He could have subdued the man without killing him.

He thought back to their kiss that morning. He let himself remember the taste of mint. But the sweetness, the warmth? He didn’t deserve to have that any more.

He sat in the half-dark loft, lit only by the exterior relentless lights of the city, and held the drink he did not taste, and brooded.

There was a soft knock at his door.

Reese turned his head and looked through the shadows. He did not move. He knew who it was. He hoped he would go away.

_I don’t deserve him, either._

After a moment, there was a key in the lock and the door opened.

John made a little face. He’d known Harold had his own key. He’d hoped he wouldn’t use it. “Not in the mood for company tonight, Finch,” he said harshly, even before the man came in.

“I’m sure you’re not,” Finch answered. He closed the door behind him, put the carry-out bag on the counter. John smelled something wonderful – baked chicken, he thought, and sage. His stomach gurgled in anticipation.

John still didn’t move.

Harold walked over to him, his broken gait slow but firm. He stopped directly in front of him. “It couldn’t be helped, John.”

Reese gazed up at him. The drink burned in his hand. He wasn’t drunk. He hadn’t even tasted it. But Harold didn’t know that, and didn’t need to know it. “Go away, Finch.”

“Stand up.”

John stared at him.

Finch took a step back and gestured. “Stand up. Please.”

Reese had no idea what the man was thinking. But he obviously wasn’t leaving. He sighed, put his drink down, and grudgingly climbed to his feet.

Harold grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands and dragged him down toward a kiss.

The minute John realized what was happening he stiffened, leaned away before their lips met. “No,” he said harshly.

Because all he wanted in the whole world was to let Harold kiss him and hold him and comfort him, and he didn’t deserve any of it.

Finch did not release his shirt. He looked up at him in the half-darkness and asked simply, “Why?”

“Because I would prefer not to kiss you with the taste of my failure on your tongue.”

“This is not your failure,” Finch said sternly. “Mr. Meyers planned to kill two innocent people. He _tried_ to kill you, twice. I know, John, that you don’t like to kill people. I know that you avoid it whenever possible. In this case, it wasn’t possible. And you will _not_ sit here in the dark and think anything different.”

Reese held himself stiff and very still. “I won’t?” he asked, trying for harshness.

“You will not,” Finch repeated. “I won’t allow it.”

There was something irresistible about Finch when he ordered him around. He was not the least bit intimidated by Reese’s height or skills or his aggressive posture.

“How are you going to stop me?” he asked, still snarling.

“By any means necessary.”

He leaned up to kiss him.

John pulled back a second time. “I don’t need a pity fuck, Harold.”

Finch froze. Then he straightened, released John’s shirt, and stepped back. “It is an endless mystery to me, Mr. Reese, how such an intelligent man can also be such an _idiot_.”

He turned and walked quickly toward the door.

And Reese might be an idiot – he was willing to believe that, at the moment – but he was smart enough to know that if he let Finch leave he might never see him again. And he _would_ deserve _that_. It took everything he had to get the words out. “I’m afraid, Harold.”

Finch stopped. Then he turned, very slowly, his head cocked to the side. “Afraid of _what_?”

“That I’ll fail you once too often, and you’ll throw me away like a … a poorly edited cookbook.”

Harold stared at him for a long, long moment. Reese counted the number of times he heard his heart pound in his ears. The city outside was loud, but the loft was quiet. Nothing but his heart. And his heart was about to walk out his door.

“ _Idiot_ ,” Finch finally said under his breath. “How could I have …” He stopped and looked at the floor. Then he looked up again, his eyes hard beneath his glasses, his mouth a tight unhappy line. “Mr. Reese,” he said formally. “I must apologize. I believed that I had … communicated my feelings adequately. Obviously I was very wrong in that belief.” He opened his hands in supplication. “I am an idiot, and I ask your forgiveness.”

“I don’t … understand.”

The loft seemed very big, and the distance between them very wide.

But Finch stayed where he was. “Two things I should clarify immediately. One, on the occasions when we are unable to save the Numbers – victim or perpetrator – I do not, and have not ever, consider it to be your failure. If there is any failure at all, any blame to be had, it is mine. You do the best you can with the information I’m able to provide you. You do a remarkable, an exemplary job under unimaginably difficult circumstances. I could not ask more from you.”

Reese’s mouth was dry. He tried to lick his lips, but there was no moisture on his tongue. His heart continued to pound in his ears. He felt shaky, torn between hope and gratitude and absolute despair.

“And second,” Finch began. His voice cracked and he paused. “Second, but more importantly. You are not in my estimation _disposable_. I cannot fathom how I ever gave you the impression … how I ever for one moment let you think that you were … nothing more than a mass-market book in my collection. You are …” he paused, his mouth pressed tight again. “If you insist on being compared to a book, then you are not only a first edition, but the first and last, the only one of your kind in existence, rare and valuable beyond measure and _treasured_ above anything else I have ever …”

He stopped again, this time for a very long moment. “I thought you knew,” he finally said. His voice, which had been strong and clear, was suddenly small. “I am so sorry.”

Reese felt overwhelmed, awash in relief and joy. He wanted to go to Finch, hold him, kiss him, thank him. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak, not even to whisper. And the loft was so damn big. The loft Finch had given him …

Finch nodded, just once, as if he’d spoken. His shoulders sagged. He turned and stumbled toward the door again.

“Harold,” Reese managed to say. It came out rough and mangled. But it didn’t matter, because when he could speak, he could move. He reached the man just as Finch opened the door, reached past him and pushed it shut. “Harold,” he said again, more clearly, taking his shoulder, turning him. “I didn’t … I’m not …”

They met in the middle, their lips already parted as they came together. It was harder than before, fierce and confident, his tongue on Harold’s and Harold’s pushing back. It was almost a competition, and then then both relaxed, enjoyed, and it was just exploration.

John’s knees went soft, but his cock began to grow hard.

“Harold,” he murmured.

“I’m sorry, John,” Finch whispered back. “I truly thought you knew.”

He leaned against him, pressing his back against the door, his cheek against Harold’s. “I’m not a treasure, Finch. If I’m a first edition at all, I’m in poor condition at best.”

“Because you have been misused by those who held you before,” Harold answered. His breath was warm against John’s ear. “And as you may have noticed, I’m not exactly mint myself.”

They kissed again, slow and deep. It was everything John had wanted. Everything he’d hoped for. And not nearly enough. “Please,” he said, when he came up for air. “Please, can we stop kissing?”

Finch stiffened. “Of course, Mr. Reese.” He put his hand against John’s chest and pushed. “I wouldn’t …”

“Can we stop _just_ kissing?” Reese clarified.

“Oh,” Harold breathed. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

John backed away a little, kept his arms loose around his partner. “I want … but I don’t want to screw up what we have. If you think this is …”

“Horse,” Finch said. “Barn door.”

“Yeah.” Reese smiled. Relief washed through him. “I suppose.” He ducked, rested his forehead against Harold’s collarbone. A new joy surged through him when Finch pressed a kiss against his temple. “I don’t know … how we do this.”

“As we do everything, I suppose,” Finch answered. “In compartments.”

John turned his head to look at him, puzzled.

“We make love tonight. Tomorrow we go to the library and resume our march toward our inevitable deaths.”

As morbid as that statement was, it was exactly what John needed to hear. “Yes.” He kissed Finch’s neck, worked around to his chin, then shifted enough to claim his lips again. “Yes.”

“Tell me what you want, John.”

John leaned back just enough to let him see Harold’s eyes. They were glittering now behind his glasses, warm, happy. _Happy._ Warmth flooded through him. It mingled perfectly with the heat growing in his groin. “I don’t know,” he managed to say. “I didn’t think I could have … anything …” His words failed again in the gleam of Finch’s eyes. “Tell me what you want.”

“What I want,” Finch repeated. His voice was like a caress. He shifted his body just a little, so that their groins pressed together. John was pleased to find that Harold’s cock was as stiff as his was. “I want to take the magnificent cock of your between my lips, taste it on my tongue. Mouth and caress you until you explode down my throat. I want to feel your beautiful talented mouth on my cock. I want to feel your cock buried inside my ass, and I want to feel myself deep inside you. I want to hold your erection in my hands and stroke you slowly, casually, until you squirm and cry for release, and I want to jack you off until you scream my name.” He turned his hand, took John’s hand and put it to his lips. He planted a kiss in his palm, then shifted and sucked Reese’s longest finger into his mouth, swirled his tongue around it. “And I want to feel these long, talented hands on me. And there must be a hundred other things I want to do, and a million variations and combinations thereto. And I want to do every one of them with you.”

“Was one of those other things,” Reese panted, “just talking to me until I come right here?”

Harold smiled. “It could be, if you want.”

“I want,” he said, “but not now. Some time when I’m bored on a stakeout, maybe.”

“I’ll remember that, you know.”

A delighted shiver ran down Reese’s spine at the idea. He took a deep breath and stepped back. “Where do you want to start?”

“Anywhere you like, John. Or I could make suggestions …”

“You just did.” John looked Harold up and down. The slight flush to his cheeks. The new, warm smile on his reddened lips. The perfect suit, still somehow completely buttoned. The erection that marred the line of his custom-tailored trousers. “Can I …” he asked.

“Anything, John,” Harold promised.

“Can I see you?”

Finch squinted, puzzled. “Are you … asking me to go steady, John?”

Reese shook his head, laughing. “I thought that was a given.”

“Well, you haven’t given me your class ring yet, so I didn’t know we were official.”

“I meant,” John said, “can I see you – all of you – beneath the suit?”

Harold continued to lean against the door. His eyes grew serious. “I am not much to see,” he demurred.

“You are my first and last edition.”

“I … very well.” He shook himself, seemed to throw off his reluctance. “Of course. Of course. It’s not really so much to ask …”

He was talking to himself as much as to him, John knew. Talking himself into this. He took his hand and drew Harold toward the bed slowly. “I’ll go first,” he said. “You’ve already seen most of my scars, you patched up half of them, but …”

“It’s nothing,” Harold said firmly. “Not too much to ask at all. An insignificant thing, really. It’s silly that I even hesitated. Forgive me …”

It was too much. Too much courage, too much giving. John closed on him, smothered him with a savage kiss. “ _Finch_.”

They lurched awkwardly, still embraced, toward the bed. Finch backed against it and sat down. Reese remained on his feet, quickly stripping off his clothes. Harold leaned awkwardly and slipped his shoes and socks off. His feet were long and pale and oddly enticing. He straightened, peeled off his jacket, started to unbutton his vest. “Wait,” John said quickly.

Harold stopped, his hands still on his buttons. “It’s okay, Mr. Reese. It was just a momentary …”

“Let me do it.”

John kicked his pants aside and stood, naked and fully erect, unashamed, in front of Finch. He reached and took his hands, pulled him gently to his feet. Then he pushed reached for the vest and unbuttoned it, top to bottom, one at a time. He went slowly, partly to prolong the moment, and partly because his fingers trembled slightly with every motion. He kept his eyes on the work, finally pushed the vest away, undid Harold’s tie and slipped it off, then moved to the shirt.

“John …” Harold said, very quietly.

Reese looked up. He was sure that Finch was going to tell him to stop, and he was completely willing to do so if that’s what he wanted. But Harold was staring at his chest, transfixed, his mouth slightly open. His hands came up, tentative, and rested on John’s skin.

His hands were warm. His fingers flexed, moved over him, exploring. His fingertips found a scar and traced it. John trembled.

“Sorry,” Finch said, pulling back.

John caught his hands and pressed them against his skin again. “That was not protest.”

A bare smile flickered at the edges of Harold’s mouth. “We’re still not communicating quite right, are we?”

“Practice makes perfect.” John kissed him again, lightly, and resumed his work on the buttons.

The shirt was ridiculously smooth. Beneath, the undershirt was bright white, soft and elegant to the touch. John slid his hands down to Finch’s cuffs, managed to undo his cufflinks with one hand. One of the links clattered to the floor; the other stayed in the sleeve. He moved his hands back up to Finch’s shoulders and pushed the shirt away.

And then there was only the t-shirt. He ran his hands over the smooth fabric, teased it up from the top of Finch’s trousers. He watched for any hesitation from Finch, but none came; Harold was lost in exploring John’s torso with his own clever hands. He brushed nipples, traced scars, slid long planes and curves, bone and muscle. Over his shoulders and down John’s back. Reese had the odd notion that Finch was memorizing him, that he would ever after be able to identify him by touch in the dark.

The idea made him quiver again. “John,” Harold breathed.

He hesitated, with the hem of the t-shirt gathered in both of his hands. “Is this okay?”

Harold leaned into him, breathed against his neck. “Yes.”

Slowly, Reese pulled the shirt up. Harold raised his hands part way and John eased the shirt off. He dropped it, put his hands on Harold’s waist and ran them up his back. There was a fine covering of hair there, as soft as the t-shirt had been. Warmth, and then, near the shoulder, rough scars.

Harold’s breath hitched and John stopped. He left his hand where it was, resting over the scar but not exploring. “Just tell me to stop,” he whispered.

Finch shook his head. “No. Let me …” He paused. And then he slowly, stiffly, turned around.

John closed his eyes, breathing deeply. “You don’t …”

“Shhhh. You wanted to see. I want … I want you to see.”

Reese thought his heart would break all over again at his partner’s courage. “Harold …” He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes. Instead, he settled his hands on Finch’s hips and dropped his lips to where his hands had told him the scars were. He traced them tenderly, kisses and touches. Some of the scars were straight and uniform, surgical scars. Others were jagged, twisting, wide in some places, narrow lines in others. They covered the side of Harold’s neck and most on one shoulder blade. John traced each one to its end, then worked back to the center, touching his lips and his tongue to each one. Mapping them with kisses.

He would know Harold in the dark forever, too.

Harold shuddered and John lifted his head. “Harold, I can …”

Finch moved his hips, pressed his ass, still clad in custom wool, against Reese’s erection.

John groaned. He let one hand slide across Finch’s belly – lightly fur-covered, slightly soft – and then upward to his chest. He pulled him closer, pressed Harold’s back against his chest. He mouthed at his neck and shoulder. With his other hand, he reached past his belt and cradled Harold’s cock through the pants.

Harold gasped.

They were past the scars issue, John realized with relief. He would see them, in the morning or some other time, but it didn’t matter. He knew what they were, where they were, and Harold was no longer afraid.

He kept kissing and nuzzling while both of his hands moved to Harold’s belt. The buckle was easy enough; the buttons on the trousers was almost impossible. Or perhaps it was that Harold groaned again, and John’s own cock jumped and he shuddered at being this close to everything he’d never dreamed he could have and all he had to do was undo those two stupid custom-sewn buttons …

One unbuttoned. The other snapped off and clicked softly across the hardwood floor.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“For what?” Finch asked dreamily.

“Tell you later.”

The zipper parted. John slid his hand inside, stroking the hot curved cock through the fabric of his briefs, something as wildly soft and smooth as the t-shirt had been. Harold jerked back against him. “John …” he said softly. Then he turned in Reese’s arms so that they were face to face again.

His eyes were wide behind his glasses. John claimed his mouth again as he pushed his trousers down. He gripped Harold’s brief-clad ass with both hands, reveling in the round symmetry, the way the cheeks fit so perfectly in the cupping of his fingers. He rolled his own hips, rubbing their cocks together. Finch’s hands were all over his back, on his ass, on his shoulders, and there were tongues and lips and he wanted wanted wanted …

“Tell me,” Harold said against his lips.

“Everything,” John answered. It came out as a desperate sob. “I want everything.”

“You can have everything,” Finch answered. “Everything you want. Tell me what you want _now_.”

Reese panted, dizzy with the possibilities. He felt like a starving man at a smorgasbord. Everything that would fill his hunger was there for the taking; he only had to pick what he wanted first. Which of the delicious choices would satisfy the worst of his hunger?

Knowing that he could come back and sample everything else made it a little easier.

He slid his hand between their hips and stroked Finch’s cock again. It was slender, longer than he would have expected, curving up toward Harold’s belly, hard and hot through the fabric, tantalizing and irresistible.

He wanted wanted wanted, so hard he could barely speak. But all he had to do was ask. If he could ask, get those few words out, he could have …

“Please,” he managed to whisper.

“Anything, John.”

He swallowed hard. Want want want. “Fuck me.”

Harold purred against the side of his face. There was not the slightest hesitation, in his voice, his breathing, his body. “Of course.”

It felt like something unlocked with a loud click in John’s chest. Yes. It was not only possible, but imminent. His cock jumped, began to leak drops of pre-cum. Suddenly it wasn’t an impossible dream, a fantasy. Suddenly it was just a matter of execution.

Practicalities. They needed to get Harold the rest of the way out of his pants, and they needed a bit of equipment. He had condoms in the bathroom, which seemed a very long way away. Lube he came up blank on. He should have been better prepared. But he’d never thought this would happen, and certainly not on the spur of the moment like this. “I have …” he began.

“In the bag, with the chicken,” Finch answered calmly. “Which we should put in the refrigerator, apparently.”

“Okay.”

Reese stood perfectly still, his arms still wrapped around his soon-to-be lover.

“Mr. Reese.”

John grinned. “Oh, you want me to go get them.”

“That would be useful, yes.”

With great reluctance, he released Finch and walked swiftly to the kitchen. He removed the smaller Duane Reade bag from the carry-out bag, stuffed the big bag in the refrigerator, and hurried back to the bed.

Finch had taken off his trousers and his briefs, turned back the covers, and sat patiently, almost demurely, on the edge of the bed. He held his hand out, took the bag. “Could you bring the pillows from the couch, please?”

It was weirdly, endearingly formal, so very _Finch_ , even without the suit. Reese grinned and went to get the extra pillows. When he came back, Harold was laying down on his side, facing the center of the bed, with one pillow stuffed behind his back. John sat on the other side of the bed, uncertain and suddenly shy himself.

“Am I on your side?” Finch asked.

“No, it’s fine. I just … it’s been a long time.”

“For me, as well.” Harold swallowed. “Since before the …” He gestured to his hip. “This may take a bit of experimentation.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“We will.”

Harold took off his glasses, folded them carefully, held them out to him. John took them reverently and put them on the side table. Then, in response to Finch’s gesture, he stretched out on the bed, facing him.

“Kiss me,” Harold said simply. “I very much like kissing you.”

John grinned and slid closer to kiss him. They went slow again, lingering, caressing. The passion that had waned a bit in the practicalities flowered again. He shifted his hips closer, so that their cocks were side by side between them. He was ridiculously hard again, and Harold was dripping pre-cum as well. “We could … “

“Bring your leg up, here,” Finch directed.

Cautiously, Reese bent his left leg and laid it on top of Finch’s.

Harold caught it behind the knee and hiked it higher, so that his thigh rested over his lover’s and his calf was behind his legs. “Slide up a bit,” Finch said.

Reese grabbed the headboard and pulled himself toward it until his thigh rested on Harold’s hip.

“Good,” Harold said. He leaned forward just a little and lapped at John’s nipple. “Very good.”

“You sure?” John worried.

“Yes.” He tilted his head up for another kiss. It was odd, seeing him without his glasses. He seemed so very naked, more even then when he’d taken off his suit.

The kiss was distracting; John missed the sound of the lube opening. The next sensation he noted was Harold’s hand, slick, sliding down the crack of his ass.

The lube was very warm. Of course, it had been in the bag with the chicken dinner. It hadn’t been deliberate, John guessed, but he loved it anyhow.

The fact that Harold had brought condoms and lube, of course, meant that he’d planned this, anticipated this. John didn’t know what to think on that front. And then the tip of Harold’s finger circled his opened, and he could hardly think anything at all.

The finger breached him and he gasped.

Harold paused, rolling his fingertip gently but advancing it no further. “Have you done this before, John?” he asked gently.

“Yes,” Reese breathed. “But it’s been a while.”

_***_

_“I’d ask what the hell’s wrong with you,” Stanton sneered, “but I already know. You need to get fucked, John. Get your clothes off.”_

_He could have said no. He didn’t want to. He took his clothes off and stood in front of her, calm, at parade-rest, not meeting her eyes. She was still fully dressed, in her killer little black dress and stiletto heels. “On the floor,” she ordered. “Hands and knees.”_

_He obeyed without protest. His cock began to fill._

_“That’s my boy,” Stanton sniped. She rummaged in her purse._

_Reese closed his eyes, but he heard her clicking shoes walk up behind him. The swish of her skirt, and then her hand on his ass. He braced himself, mentally and physically, and stayed as still as he could. She traced slick fingers up and down the crack of his ass. Circled his opening a couple times, her perfect nails scraping lightly. Then her hand was gone, and there was something hard pressed against him._

_The dildo had been lubed, but it was too big and she pressed it in too fast. John clenched his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut as the rubber head entered his ass. It burned going in, burned as she drew it out. His cock went fully hard. Kara pressed the dildo in again, deeper. More burning. Out, burning. She wasn’t brutal, but she was rough._

_He deserved the pain. He loved the pain._

_In a dozen strokes, she’d worked the toy all the way inside him. She left it there and reached under him to stroke his erection. His cock was fully hard, beginning to drop pre-cum on the floor beneath him. He tensed, knowing what came next. She pulled at his crown hard, stretching his cock painfully. Then she snapped a cock ring tight around the base._

_She released his cock then and worked the dildo hard, thrusting fast and deep. The burning was gone. John thrust back against the toy, taking it all, bucking against it. His balls ached; his cock swelled with desire. Climax was denied him. There was no release for him, only the punishment of Kara pounding his ass. She kept it up until he moaned, and then she kept it up some more._

_Then she stopped, pulled the dildo out entirely, and stood up. John groaned with the sudden absence. She shoved his hip from one side, toppling him over, then rolled him onto his back. He looked up at her, his eyes blurry with need._

_“Damn shame to waste that,” Kara pronounced, gesturing to his straining, purple cock. She straddled him, one elegant stiletto heel on each side of his hips. Then she lowered herself, driving her wet pussy straight onto his straining erection, and she fucked herself on him until she came._

_When she was satisfied, finally, she stood up, leaned down, and snapped the cock ring off. John came immediately, spurting into the air, onto himself, onto the floor._

_Kara smirked down at him. “Get cleaned up,” she said, “and get dressed. We’ve got work to do.”_

_John glared up at her, hating her, hating himself more, embracing the pain she’d brought him. Grateful for it._

_It was better than feeling nothing at all …_

 ***

But this was as far from that experience as sex could be. This was not Kara using sex as punishment and reward at the same time. This was Finch, working his clever fingers gently, easily, into John’s ass. Finch opening him, caressing him, preparing him. Finch patiently doing everything he could to avoid hurting him.

Finch loving him.

And John didn’t need the pain, because he had so many other feelings that he could hardly bear all of them. And they were all good, pure, healthy. Not Kara’s darkness. Harold’s light.

Another wave of joy surged through him. With it came another wave of arousal. His cock began to ache. He dug his fingertips into Finch’s back. “Please,” he whispered.

“Soon,” Harold promised. “A little more …”

Three fingers, slick and gentle, pressed into his ass. John groaned. “Harold, please, now. Please.”

“John.”

Reese opened his eyes. Harold’s face was right there, inches away. His eyes, for once not shielded behind his glasses, glittered with warmth. “Do you have any idea how wondrous it is, watching your face right now?”

John tried to speak, but no words came out.

The fingers flexed, twisted, turned, probed. John arched his back, pressed down, aching for more. His cock rubbed against Harold’s. They were both slick, hot, hard. “Please,” he managed to say, “pleasepleaseplease.”

Finch sighed indulgently. “Very well. But I’m afraid you’ll have to most of the work from here on out.”

If that meant, John thought, that he got to set the pace now, he was all in favor of it. By his reckoning this foreplay had gone on for nearly two weeks. He was starting to think that he would die of desire if they didn’t finish soon.

Harold removed his fingers – slowly, caressing all the way out – and rolled onto his back. He fussed with the pillows, settling three of them behind his head and shoulders. Reese took advantage of his distraction to bend over and slide his longed-for cock deep into his mouth. Finch bucked, startled, and made a delicious sound. He tasted salty and musky and just a little soapy. John drew off slowly, sucking hard, until he had just the crown between his lips. Then he moved to take him in again.

Harold plucked at the short hair that came to a point at the back of John’s neck, hard enough to sting. “Next time, John,” he panted.

Reese lifted his head, twirled his tongue to collect a drop of pre-cum off the tip of Harold’s cock. “Promise?”

“Or the time after that,” Harold said. “Please.”

Grinning, John took the condom – one of six, he noted happily – and unrolled it swiftly over Harold’s erection. He stroked it a few times, reveling in its hardness, learning its weight, its size, and loving the way Finch groaned in response. Then his lover batted his hand away and stroked himself, with lube.

“Please," Finch said again.

John shifted, faced Harold and threw his leg over him to straddle his hips. He braced himself on one arm at the side of Finch’s ribs, used his other hand to reach back and guide the slippery cock to his opening. The tip slid inside him, just a little stretch bigger than the fingers. Perfect. He paused as a wave of desire roared through him again. His cock twitched over Finch’s belly, leaking profusely now. But he didn’t want to come yet. He wanted this to last all night.

He eased down onto the cock. A second wave hit him. He waited it out. But Finch shuddered, too, and he knew it wasn’t going to last long, and that was okay, too.

Because Finch had promised him next time. There would be a next time, and a time after that.

Reese closed his eyes, ground his teeth, panted through the next wave.

He pushed downward. It was tighter now; the burn set in. he didn’t care.

Finch said, “Slower.”

“I’m okay,” John protested. He pressed again. The burn continued, but it was like spice, like cinnamon on coffee cake, the bite accenting the sweetness.

Except that Finch hissed, very softly, but clearly in pain.

It wasn’t only John that it hurt.

His eyes flew open. He froze, half-impaled on Harold’s cock. The blue eyes were still warm, half- lidded with desire, but there was pain, too. “There are other positions …”

“Oh yes,” Finch purred. “And I intend for us to try every one of them.”

John actually cried out at the strength of the wave that hit him. “God, Harold …”

“Just a little slower,” Finch answered.

With exquisite care and every ounce of control he possessed or could borrow from the cosmos, John drove his lover’s cock slowly, slowly, deep into his own ass.

When he was finally fully impaled, when he could feel Harold’s balls pressed against his own ass, he paused, savoring the feeling. He had wanted this for so long. He never thought it could be. And now they were here, perfectly joined, fitted together …

Harold made a strangled noise and shifted his hips beneath him. The head of his cock brushed John’s prostate. Reese threw his head back and gave a short scream that was nearly a howl. He panted, trying to fight down the urge to explode. Trying to stay still. Above all, trying not to hurt his lover.

Harold’s hands were on his hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave little bruises. He urged John upward. Reese moved, following his cues. Two inches, and the fingers pulled downward. The crown of Finch’s cock hit his prostate again. He whimpered. The fingers urged him up again, down again.

He opened his eyes again, looked into Finch’s. “Okay?” he managed to ask.

“Oh yes. Oh yes.”

Reese leaned forward over Harold’s chest and began to pump his hips on his own. Not fast, at first, and not hard. Deep, slow. So good. So unbelievably good.

Harold’s hands came off his hips, traced across his chest. Pinched his nipples, hard, rolled them. Light pain, spice against the sweetness. Unbearable and perfect. Reese leaned further, pressing his own cock between them. He caught Harold’s lips again and kissed him, his tongue thrusting in rhythm with his hips. Their bodies rubbed over his cock, bringing his closer to climax. The angle, he realized, kept him from bringing pressure down on Harold’s injured hip. He thrust harder, faster.

Finch began to pant against his mouth with every stroke. Reese almost paused, but it wasn’t pain. Harold’s hips began to rise, deepening the thrusts. Faster, deeper, harder, and his cock was going to explode, he was going to …

Harold put one palm flat on Reese’s chest and pushed him away gently. Reese pushed himself up on his arms, looked into his eyes again. Harold’s hand got between them, wrapped around his cock, slid up and down his length. His fingers were hot. He matched Reese’s rhythm exactly. They moved together, perfectly synched up, one body with two parts. John’s world shrank to nothing but sensation and Harold. His lover’s eyes, cloudy with passion and yet open, staying with him. Perfect, perfect, a dozen strokes of bliss and one more and then Harold’s mouth open and he made a sound that was not a shout so much as a cry of joy, and John could feel his cockhead pulse against his prostate, and he came too, long and hard and more perfect than it had ever been in his life.

He collapsed forward onto his elbows, half-conscious but aware enough to keep his weight off his lover. The warmth of Harold’s chest against him, the soft sparse fur. The beating of two heart, too fast. The scent of sweat and sex. The gradual slowing of their breathing, still synchronized. The inevitable softening of Harold’s cock still inside him, and of his, still lovingly held in Finch’s hand.

John let the moment last as long as he could. Then, reluctantly, he moved up enough to disengage and rolled to the side. He reached down and removed the condom carefully, rolled to his back and tossed it in the general direction of the wastepaper basket. He had a notion he ought to clean up the cum that was sprayed on his stomach and Finch’s, but he was also sure that his legs wouldn’t support him for a few minutes. He sprawled on his back beside Harold, still panting. Then he reached over and took his hand.

Harold’s fingers were still hot. They folded over his lightly, firmly.

They looked at the dim ceiling together for a long time.

Finally, John said, quietly, “How long have you been planning this?”

“Not planning,” Harold corrected, also quietly. “More like – hopefully preparing.”

“All right. How long have you been hopefully preparing, then?”

Finch made a little noise. John turned his head, saw a smile that was almost a laugh on his lips. “Honestly? Since you threw me against the wall of a hotel and put your forearm against my throat.”

Reese took a deep breath. That had been before their first Number. Nearly three years. And in all that time … “Why didn’t you say something?”

Finch shifted awkwardly onto his side, because he couldn’t turn his head that way. “I didn’t think you’d be interested,” he answered simply.

“ _Harold_.” John was full of regret suddenly. Three years. They’d lost _three years._ And given their chosen profession, that might well be all the time they’d had. He rolled too, so that they were face to face.

“We weren’t ready then, in any case. Either of us.”

Reese stared at him. It hurt to admit it, but Harold was right. When they’d met, Jessica had been dead for six months, and he’d known about it for four. He was still bent on drinking himself to death. He might have been ready for sex, but for love? Not even close.

And Finch? Finch had lost Nathan and left Grace, not much before Jessica had died. He’d still been in mourning, too.

It hurt to remember, how lost and injured they’d both been then.

But a year ago. A year ago they could have been together like this. Maybe even longer than that …

“John,” Harold said calmly, “we’re here now.”

Reese took a long, deep breath and exhaled. “If you hadn’t made me coffee cake, if I hadn’t kissed you …”

Finch shook his head. “I am, technically, still your employer. And as I said, I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“You wouldn’t have made a move.”

Harold considered him, his blue eyes calm, still naked. “I could not have, John. I could not have risked that you would let me … exploit you, as others have.”

Shame washed over Reese, as he remembered Kara and Snow and others. They’d exploited his talents, yes. But they’d exploited his sexuality, too, to keep him compliant. To keep him in a shadow of shame. Sometimes just to pleasure themselves.

And he’d let them.

“John.” Harold reached out and touched his cheek. “You are still my first and last edition. I cannot change how you were treated before. But I meant what I said. You are treasured beyond everything else in my life. And I will care for you to the very best of my ability.”

Reese felt tears gathering in his eyes. He closed them tightly, turned his face and placed a kiss in Harold’s palm. No one had ever spoken to him this way, not even Jessica. He trusted Finch completely, and so he believed him absolutely.

He didn’t deserve it. He would never deserve it. But if working with the Numbers had taught him anything, it was that people rarely got what they deserved, and that in most cases that was a great blessing.

He would accept Harold’s love, not as something he’d earned, but as a gift. And he would hold it precious until the day he died.

“I love you,” he murmured into his lover’s palm.

“I love you, too, John.”

They dozed for a while, spent and exhausted and blissful.

Then John’s stomach rumbled, loud enough for both of them to hear it.

John tried to ignore it. Harold laughed out loud.

They got up reluctantly and cleaned up. John put on a clean t-shirt and yoga pants, and then, a bit shyly, brought out another set of casual clothes for Finch. “I don’t want you to get dressed. If you don’t get dressed, you can’t leave.”

Finch regarded the little pile of folded clothes with amusement. “I’ll get lost in those, John.”

“No. They’re your size. I’ve been saving them.”

“Planning on this?” Harold teased.

“Just hopefully prepared.”

Finch put on the casual clothes. He did gather his suit, smooth it out and hang it up while John re-warmed their dinner, but he did not put it on, and he did not leave.

 ***

In the morning, before they went to the library, the men put their heads together and sifted through internet baking sites. They finally settled on the most likely the recipes and made it together.

The breakfast pastries baked for five minutes too long, because when the timer went off Harold was face-down on the bed, with his hips carefully supported with pillows and John’s cock deeply, deliciously buried in his ass. The timer sounded rhythmically for two minutes while they finished, and three more before Reese could stagger to the kitchen to shut the oven off.

The scones were a shade too brown and their texture was a bit too crunchy, but otherwise they were absolutely perfect.

 

The End


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